


Full Disclosure

by Itsallfine



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bars and Pubs, Declarations Of Love, Dirty Talk, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, John "Three Continents" Watson, John's Army Mates, Just the Tip, Love Confessions, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, just suspend your disbelief with the premise okay?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 12:47:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13318422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallfine/pseuds/Itsallfine
Summary: John’s army mates get together for the first time post-discharge and invite John “Three Continents” Watson to join them. If John shows up alone, he knows he’ll be the object of non-stop ridicule all night. Sherlock plays along. John tests the waters.





	Full Disclosure

**Author's Note:**

> Slight AU that requires ignoring a few of Bill Murray's comments on John's blog, if you care about that sort of thing. Every author has their fixations, topics they frequently return to or themes they play with. Mine is apparently John Watson being a slag and sucking a lot of cock while he's in the army. *shrug* There are worse things.
> 
> Worth mentioning, though, that this idea of John hooking up with men while deployed originally popped into my head years ago after reading an article about the US military cracking down on craigslist-arranged gay hookups between servicemen overseas. A sting operation, undercover military police, the whole nine. Made me fucking angry. I like to imagine (realistically or not) that those who were stationed there for several tours got to know each other and managed to find some sort of community where they could feel safe, bringing new soldiers in as they were vetted. That’s the kind of community depicted here. 
> 
> I’m loosely placing this somewhere in S1 or S2, and of course I firmly believe that if John and Sherlock were together before the fall then shit woulda gone down differently, so please imagine all the hearts and puppies and happy endings. 
> 
> Many thanks as always to [wiscolina](https://wiscolina.tumblr.com/) for the beta read. :)

 

John Watson had planned on a perfectly boring, uneventful Friday night. The clinic had been slow. Sherlock had just solved a case the night before and was delightfully docile. The weekend stretched before him with quiet promise: curry, bad mystery novels, and if he was really lucky, a movie night with Sherlock where he could subtly try for a cuddle. It worked occasionally. This weekend felt like it could be one of those times. He settled into his chair with a sigh and rubbed his socked feet together with a contented hum.

Then his phone chimed with a new text message.

Bill: _  
_ _WATSON you tart, get your arse down to the pub tonight at 8_

Bill: _  
_ _Some of the boys are back and we’re having a reunion!_

Bill: _  
_ _If you even think about saying no, I’ll show up on your damn stoop, and don’t think I won’t_

Bill: _  
_ _You know me Watson_

  
And he would do it, too. John slumped in his seat and groaned, banging his head against the back of the chair with his eyes closed.

“Problem?” Sherlock asked from his spot at the kitchen table.

John sighed. “Some of the blokes I was stationed with in Afghanistan are on leave this weekend and everyone’s getting together.”

“So what’s the problem? You like to pretend you don’t hate socializing.”

John covered his face with his hands. The problem was truly embarrassing, and one he really didn’t want to have to explain to Sherlock. Sherlock stared at him expectantly, though, so he fumbled for something suitably vague.

"They'll take the piss all bloody night if I show up alone. I’d rather not be laughed at for two straight hours."  
  
Sherlock jammed his goggles down over his eyes with a scowl, and the ice in his voice dropped the temperature in the flat by several degrees. "So go call up one of your past conquests, or go pull some woman of questionable intelligence at the pub and leave me in peace."  
  
John winced. The truth was significantly more complicated than that, and telling Sherlock the whole thing could prove... dangerous.

And yet, the opportunity to be finally truthful about a few particular aspects of his past might break down certain walls that had always stood between them. Might allow him to probe certain topics they'd always avoided, mostly because of John's own resistance. He could test the waters, gently, in a way that had nothing to do with the two of them.  
  
John bought himself some time to calm his nerves by getting up to fix a cup of tea, knowing Sherlock wouldn't tell the difference in the passage of time whether it was ten seconds or ten minutes. He took his tea back to his chair, sat, and breathed in the warm, soothing steam for a moment to steady himself for his confession.  
  
Take a leap.  
  
"They would be quite shocked to see me show up with a woman," he finally said.  
  
Sherlock snorted. "I'm sure they'd have no trouble believing Three Continents Watson was capable of pulling a woman on short notice. You'll be fine. Can we be done with this tedious conversation now?"  
  
Okay, apparently he'd have to be even more direct. Why had Sherlock chosen this of all moments to be frustratingly obtuse?  
  
"I'm not even going to ask how you know about that nickname. But you're missing my point." He took a deep, steadying breath through his nose. "They'd be surprised to see me show up with a _woman._ And then I'd have to have some really awkward conversations."  
  
_Like this one,_ John thought, mentally tying a noose for himself. But Sherlock froze, pipette in hand hovering over a dish, as John's words finally sank in.  
  
"About what?"  
  
Ah, of _course_ Sherlock would need maximum specificity. Had to have all the facts. Couldn't leave anything to assumption or implication. John took a bracing sip of tea and forged ahead.  
  
"About how I haven't been with a man since the army. Despite the fact that I was _only_ with men while I was there."  
  
The bomb silently went off between them, scattering fire and wreckage throughout the sitting room.  
  
Sherlock blinked rapidly behind his safety goggles for several minutes.

John quietly panicked into his tea.  
  
"Not gay," Sherlock finally said an eternity later. "You said. Not gay."  
  
_Damage control,_ John thought. _Short sentences, repeating himself. Brain offline. I've broken him._  
  
"Yes, well," John said, shifting awkwardly in his chair. "I was rather deeply in denial there for a while. Probably not gay, actually, I do legitimately like women. But, uh... men. Too."  
  
God, it was the most excruciating conversation he'd ever participated in. Sherlock blinked for another two minutes in processing overload. Finally, his deductive brain seemed to re-engage, and he fixed John with an intense stare.  
  
"Low availability of women while in the military meant you had an excuse to indulge in something you'd been repressing your whole life, likely due to your father, but also possibly due to a botched coming out by Harry, which scarred you permanently into the closet. A significant enough subset of men indulged in casual same-sex relations overseas, so you had no problems fitting right in, so to speak. But something forced you back into your previous mindset upon your discharge, possibly something with your family; a comment from Harry in front of your father, perhaps, or you'd spoken just a bit too frequently about one of your fellow soldiers for your family to completely write it off. Possibly you tried to reconnect with one of your army paramours after returning home, only to find that he was only situationally gay and was completely unreceptive to the idea of a civilian relationship, no matter how casual. Or, perhaps it was simply the trauma of your violent discharge from the military combined with the loss of connection with your unit and a desire to draw boundaries between your old life and your new one. Or some combination thereof, of course."  
  
Silence reigned in the flat for several long moments.  
  
John was crumbling.  
  
The cup of tea shook in his hand as a stab of pain shot through his leg and shoulder. He closed his eyes against the flood of awful memories, the loneliness, the aching emptiness that came with being violently expelled from your perfect place in the universe, the place where you fit more than anywhere else. His right hand tightened around the handle of the tea cup.  
  
"All of the above," he said, low and rough.  
  
Sherlock blinked.  
  
"What?"  
  
John slammed the cup of tea down on the side table and leaped to his feet, pacing across the room with one hand buried in his hair.  
  
"It was all of it, Sherlock, every _single_ thing you just said. It's all true. Of course it is, because if you see something you can't help but drag it all out into the open. Honestly, I'm surprised you haven't figured this all out before."  
  
"I was missing a crucial data point," Sherlock said, stunned. Then, sheepishly: "This may be one of my primary blind spots."  
  
John barked a harsh laugh. "Well, I'm so glad you've managed to overcome your blind spot to pour salt into every raw place in my psyche. Now that you've thoroughly analyzed me I imagine we're done now, right? There's nothing left to figure out, so I'm boring now. I may as well pack my things and start looking for a new place to live before your boredom turns to chemical explosions and—  
  
"John, stop, please."  
  
Sherlock stood and removed his goggles, avoiding John's eyes now that he didn't have the filter of plastic between them. He watched his own fingers where they rested on the goggles, tapping against their clear facing.  
  
"You know that once the pieces start to fall together I can't stop it. I didn't mean to cause you pain." His Adam's apple bobbed, and his eyes darted back and forth, as if physically looking for the right words.  
  
"Trauma related to one's sexuality is... not unfamiliar to me," he finally said. "Please accept my apologies."  
  
John halted with his back to Sherlock, his hand still buried in his hair. That was... exactly the sort of information he'd been fishing for when he started this conversation. It only just occurred to him that he hadn't actually expected it to work. Or rather, he hadn't actually expected there to be anything to learn.  
  
"So you _are_ gay?" John asked, just for clarification.  
  
Sherlock drew himself up and put on his most condescending expression. "I should think that was obvious."  
  
Defense mechanism. John's expression softened. "I wasn't sure if you were gay or just... not into anyone. Anything."  
  
Sherlock shrugged. "It's not something that comes up often. You know how I am. There aren't many people in the world who can tolerate me."  
  
He said it breezily, as if it were a simple fact that hardly mattered, but John saw through the front. Sherlock held himself stiffly, uncomfortable.  
  
_I can more than tolerate you,_ John wanted to say, but he reined himself in. Gay didn't necessarily mean interested in him. He might not be Sherlock's type. Not smart enough, tall enough, posh enough—  
  
John forced his thoughts off that track, thinking back through their years of association. That first meeting.  
  
There was one way to possibly find out.  
  
"Come with me to the reunion," he said before he could think it through too much.  
  
Sherlock finally met his gaze, eyes wide. "What?"  
  
John forced himself to stand his ground, to resist the urge to retreat. "Lots of people assume we're together anyway, so it won't be much of a stretch for my army mates to believe. We go, we say hello, have a drink, I catch up with the blokes a bit, then we get out of there as soon as possible. I get to see them without getting ribbed all night for Three Continents Watson being nearly 40 and single, nor getting the third degree for showing up with a woman, who would run away screaming when the guys likely revealed way too much about my... habits over there."  
  
_And maybe, if I'm lucky, I get to see if there's any possibility for us,_ he thought, with only a slight twinge of guilt at his near Sherlockian level of manipulation.  
  
Sherlock was silent for a long moment. John's brilliant plan began to crumble before his eyes. Too transparent, so obviously fishing, and he'd just revealed everything he'd always held so close for this exact reason—  
  
Sherlock cleared his throat. "I suppose it's the least I can do after... all that. I can attempt to make this event easier on you."  
  
"Sherlock, you don't have to—"  
  
"No, you're right. I insist. It's the logical solution." Then he lit up, and John internally groaned. It was the "really good locked room murder" face, and John was instantly filled with regret.  
  
"In fact," Sherlock said, "this is the perfect opportunity for me to observe you in in a different social group from what I normally see. I'm sure to make all kinds of interesting observations. I'll need to tidy my mind palace before we go. When is the event?"  
  
"Eight this evening," John said with a sigh.  
  
"I'll be ready by half seven," Sherlock said, and promptly flopped down on the couch in his thinking pose, his fingers steepled under his chin.  
  
John dragged a hand over his face.  
  
He'd changed his mind.  
  
This was a terrible idea.

* * *

  
  
  
John briefly considered discussing the fake relationship thing with Sherlock before they went in, but swiftly dismissed the idea. The whole thing was mortifying enough to begin with, and trying to establish how they'd gotten together and what their dynamic would be like would drag them far too close to true things John wasn't ready to discuss. He'd just stick as close as he could to the truth, hope Sherlock would follow his lead, and try not to put his foot in his mouth.  
  
_Besides,_ his brain whispered, _an accurate picture of Sherlock's reactions will be far more useful._  
  
Also, knowing Sherlock, it would quickly devolve into a far too detailed and explicit conversation about sexual roles and dynamics, and John didn't think he could handle that conversation _ever,_ much less when he was about to spend an entire evening in Sherlock's proximity.  
  
His army mates were likely to air all of that before the night was out anyway.  
  
John felt himself go green as his stomach turned.  
  
The cab pulled up in front of the pub at the same time as another one, which spilled two of John's former battalion acquaintances out onto the sidewalk with a boisterous cheer. John had been hoping for a quiet moment to collect himself and make sure Sherlock was ready, but there'd be no time for that, apparently. He looked over at Sherlock to check in as he pulled a few bills from his wallet, expecting to see his usually calm, collected passivity. Instead, he found Sherlock looking a bit like a deer in headlights, his eyes locked on the men out the window, four of them now. Apparently they'd have to _make_ time to check in.  
  
John handed the bills over to the cabbie. "Keep the change and give us just a minute?"  
  
The cabbie counted the money, then nodded. "Sure, mate. Make it quick."  
  
The partition slid shut, and John turned to Sherlock.  
  
"Hey," he said, drawing his attention away from the men out on the pavement. "You sure you're okay with this? Say the word and we'll go home."  
  
Sherlock shook his head, his lips pursed, then hesitated.  
  
"You're sure these men... that they aren't... they won't..." Sherlock cut off, frustrated. "Never mind. Let's go. Come on, John."  
  
He scooted closer to John, attempting to crowd him out the door, but John held his ground, relishing the warm rush as their legs pressed together and Sherlock's face hovered so near his. Sherlock's breath caught, and John silently ticked off a point in his favor, dragging his eyes away from Sherlock's lips. Instead of pressing their lips together, like he really wanted to do, he decided to start out slow.  
  
He reached out and covered Sherlock's hand with his own and squeezed once.  
  
"I'm not an idiot, Sherlock, much as you may like to think I am." He brushed his thumb over Sherlock's knuckles. "Can I make a deduction of my own?"  
  
Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes, but didn't argue.  
  
"I think when you were younger, big athletic guys like them harassed you constantly for being gay. Maybe even got violent. Yeah?"  
  
Sherlock pursed his lips and looked away, then nodded.  
  
John's heart ached, and before he could think about it he brought Sherlock's hand up to his mouth and brushed a reassuring kiss there. Sherlock's breath caught again, and his fingers tightened around John's. Another win. John smiled faintly against the back of Sherlock's hand.  
  
"I can promise you with absolute certainty," he murmured against Sherlock's skin, "that these men are not homophobic, and they would never do anything to harm you in any way. It would be hypocritical, for one, considering their own past behavior. I'd never put myself in this situation if they were, for two. Remember why you’re here? And third," he said, daring one last kiss before letting their hands rest back on Sherlock's knee, "I would never let anything happen to you. I always have your back. You know that."  
  
"I do," Sherlock said, breathless. "I'm ready. Let's go."  
  
John smiled despite the nervous hammering of his heart and opened the door behind him. He climbed out into the warm summer evening and held the door for Sherlock, holding out his hand to help him out. Sherlock hesitated for the barest fraction of a second before taking it.  
  
As soon as the cab drove off, the shouts began.  
  
"WATSON!"  
  
"JOHNNY!"  
  
"Well, fuck me, mates, look who we have here!"  
  
John grinned so hard all his worries about Sherlock and their ploy briefly fell away, and he was quickly enveloped in a series of back-slapping hugs. He was instantly years younger, feeling the desert sun, the grit of sand, the comfort of a trusted man watching your back and a bond stronger than anything he'd experienced before Afghanistan, and only once since. He felt instantly at home, comfortable, looked over by familiar eyes and hugged by familiar arms.  
  
Sherlock at his side shifted in discomfort, taking in the whole scene. The guys, being _the guys,_ instantly noticed and pounced.  
  
"Well well, Watson," Jenkins said, looking Sherlock over head to toe. "Who's the arm candy you brought with you tonight?"  
  
Sherlock's cheeks went attractively pink, and he opened his mouth to deduce Jenkins, no doubt, but Bill Murray thankfully beat him to it.  
  
"Oi, mate, you been living under a rock?" Bill said with a mighty slap to John's bad shoulder. One would think the nurse who'd patched that wound up would know better. "That there's the famous Sherlock Holmes, the detective Johnny's been running with since he got back!"  
  
"Yes," John said, drawing Sherlock forward by the hand to get some measure of control over the situation. "This is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Bill Murray, who you’ve seen through the blog, plus Jenkins, Patel, and Harris."  
  
"A pleasure," Sherlock murmured, and John could see him slipping into a character, playing the role. John's boyfriend. Not good. Anything said or done during one of his acts couldn't be trusted as truth.  
  
Jenkins's eyes nearly bugged out of his head as Sherlock shook everyone's hands. "Damn, Watson. You've done well for yourself! Fancy doctor, posh detective in your bed, face in the paper, adoring fans reading your blog. Can't believe you're the same dirty army boy who spent half his tour—"  
  
John cut in, desperate to spare Sherlock the gory details.  
  
"All right, come on, you tossers, let's go inside and get started with the drinking before we get any further, yeah?" he begged, squeezing Sherlock's hand in a silent signal to please keep it together just a bit longer. "I need a pint if I'm gonna look at your ugly mugs all night."  
  
"Well, hell, Johnny," Patel said with admiration. "I wouldn't wanna look at our faces either if that's what you're used to seeing under you every night."  
  
Sherlock missed a step at the _under you_ comment, and John shot him an apologetic look, mouthing a desperate ‘sorry’. Sherlock didn't look bothered, exactly, though. His cheeks were even redder than before, his eyes a bit glazed over, dazed... dilated.  
  
Maybe the thought of being under John in bed turned him on a bit.  
  
Or a lot.  
  
John swallowed hard and forced his thoughts away from Sherlock arching under him, sprawled over the sheets with that gorgeous flush on his cheeks. Maybe he was just embarrassed. Dazed from being so far out of his comfort zone, so unsure of what to say.  
  
John's heart sank. That sounded more likely, actually.  
  
"I'm sorry," he hissed in Sherlock's ear. "I should have warned you. Army talk is rather... crass."  
  
"It's... fine," Sherlock mumbled.  
  
Then they were inside, the thick, too-warm atmosphere of the pub wrapping them in humidity as they headed for a corner of the pub holding no less than fifteen strapping military lads, all of whom turned to cheer as their little group entered. The six of them made their way over and grabbed a table on the edge of the gathering, John steering Sherlock to the seats on the end so they could make a quick getaway if needed.

"Okay, Johnny, you've obviously done the best for yourself since we got out, so first round is on you!" Harris declared, supported by cheers from the other three who'd walked in with them. John rolled his eyes.  
  
"Fine, mine first. The three of you are getting whatever the hell I choose to give you, but Sherlock, what would you like?" he asked, slinging an arm around the back of Sherlock's chair. Sherlock looked up at him, unsure, maybe thinking there was a right and wrong answer. "Scotch?" he offered to throw him a bone.  
  
"You know what I like," Sherlock said, then cringed as Jenkins yelled "I bet he does!" to great uproarious laughter. John flushed and laughed with the others, then dropped a kiss to Sherlock's forehead without thinking.  
  
"Scotch on the rocks, coming up," John said, then made his escape with only a small twinge of guilt at leaving Sherlock to the wolves. John needed a moment to collect himself, but vowed to hurry back before the boys could scar Sherlock too deeply with stories of his past exploits.  
  
His summer of med school bartending came in handy as he managed his way back to the table with four pints and a rocks glass clutched expertly together in his hands. It appeared he was too late, though, as he overheard their conversation on his approach.  
  
"It must be a bit awkward for you, knowing Watson's sucked half the cocks in this room," Bill said with a barking laugh, slapping Sherlock on the shoulder. John winced and moved double time, sloshing a bit of lager on the floor, but Sherlock surprised him by dishing a bit of his own back.  
  
"On the contrary, I appreciate you all training him up so I can reap the benefits. You may have had a few quick, sandy blowjobs years ago, but I'm the one who gets his full talents for the rest of my life," Sherlock said smoothly, with a wicked grin to top it off.  
  
The boys loved it, hooting with laughter and slapping the table until John walked up with their drinks, suitably impressed by Sherlock’s acting skills. Though that phrase, _for the rest of my life…_ John shivered.  
  
"All right, all right, enough torturing my future husband, arseholes. Pint of the bartender's piss for you apes, and their best scotch on the rocks for you, love," he said, presenting the drink to Sherlock with a flourish. Sherlock accepted it and sipped primly, but John could see the gleam in his eyes. He was obviously enjoying pulling one over on these men and approved of John's quick pick up of the game. John quirked a smile at him and sat, scooting his chair close so their legs pressed together under the table.  
  
And it was frightfully easy from there. The conversation turned to reminiscing about their time overseas, their exploits on leave both at home and abroad, and studiously avoiding the time since discharge for the most part. Except for John, of course, who had plenty to share. He regaled the group with stories from their cases, with additions and corrections from Sherlock where appropriate. They drifted closer and closer, John's arm around the back of Sherlock's chair and Sherlock's arm wound around his waist, until they were pressed together from shoulder to knee, sharing sips of Sherlock's third scotch while the others shared a story from their last tour, after John was discharged.  
  
"John," Sherlock murmured, taking advantage of the distraction. "Very few of these other men brought partners with them. Why were you so certain they'd make your night difficult if you didn't bring someone?"  
  
John took a sip of the scotch to give himself a moment to think. Admittedly, he'd latched onto the idea and not questioned it much since, going with his initial gut reaction. There was plenty of truth in it, though.    
  
"You've heard the way they talk about me and my... exploits," John said, with an apologetic brush of his fingers at the back of Sherlock's neck. "It's very much a situation that's unique to me. Trust me, those who came without someone are getting the third degree, you've heard some of it. But I would have been the target of it all night."  
  
"Were you really that... promiscuous in the army?" Sherlock asked, pulling away slightly. His voice was flat and uninterested, completely at odds with his words. John's heart panged, and he set the scotch down to reach under the table with his free hand. He rested it on Sherlock's knee and squeezed, running his thumb along the outer seam of Sherlock's trousers.  
  
"Sherlock," he said, leaning in close to murmur the words for his ears only. "You have to consider things in context, okay? You had it exactly right this morning. I'd been repressing everything for years, dating girls I didn't even really like just to prove to myself that I hadn't been staring at my rugby captain's arse. When I was deployed and discovered Army hookup culture, it was..." He chuckled. "Like a man offered water in a desert.  I tried to tell myself for a long time, and even after I got back, that I may have been bisexual, but that I preferred women and only ever slept with men when women weren't an option. But now I… I actually think, uh..."  
  
"That it's the other way round," Sherlock finished for him when he couldn't.  
  
John nodded, struck speechless. It was the first time he'd thought of it in those exact terms, but they had the ring of truth. He leaned more toward men. It was easier for him to fall in love with a man. He liked women occasionally, maybe even loved one once.  
  
It had been no effort at all for him to fall in love with Sherlock.  
  
John turned and buried his face where Sherlock's neck met his jaw, needing a minute to process his personal crisis. He didn't have a problem with it, necessarily, but it certainly recontextualized his life. And his relationship with Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock, who was running a hand soothingly up and down John's arm and nuzzling his shoulder, providing comfort exactly like a lover should.  
  
Playing a role.  
  
John started to pull away, but Sherlock held him there with a hand on the back of his head, fingers threaded through his hair.  
  
"John," he murmured, barely more than a rumble in Sherlock's ear. "You have a lot to process. Should we go home? Or go somewhere else?"  
  
Of all the ways he'd imagined this evening going, none of his potential scenarios included Sherlock being his emotional support, carrying him home so he could have a good panic. What had truly changed, though? It wasn't anything he hadn't already known in some dark corner of his mind for years. It was simply a fact. Just another fact about him.  
  
Besides, if they left, he'd have to let go of Sherlock. And he thought he might physically crumble to ashes if he had to let go.  
  
"No," he said, drawing back slowly, letting his mouth drag over Sherlock's cheek. "Let's stay. If that's okay with you."  
  
Sherlock's mouth lifted in that tiny smile John saw so rarely; sincere, warm, just a bit shy. "It's okay with me."  
  
Then the clinking of utensils against pint glasses filled their whole corner of the pub, and John looked up to find the whole army contingent watching them with wolfish grins.  
  
"Well, come on, Watson! Give your future husband a kiss!"  
  
"Yeah!"  
  
"Come on, Johnny!"  
  
John rolled his eyes at them, but turned to Sherlock. “Still okay with you?" he asked under his breath.  
  
That same smile in return, with a squeeze from the hand around his waist. "It's okay with me," Sherlock said again.  
  
John's heart felt like it was about to crash through his ribcage, it was beating so hard, but the soft look in Sherlock's eyes drove him forward, threading his fingers into Sherlock's hair to draw him in.  
  
And as soon as their lips met, John was done for. The boys whooped and clapped, like they were at a wedding watching the couple kiss, but all of that faded into the background as Sherlock's mouth softened against his, welcomed him, leaned into the kiss and into John. He wasn't just accepting the kiss for the sake of appearances—Sherlock Holmes was kissing him back, renewing the kiss, chasing his mouth when he tried to pull away. And John figured, what the hell—if this was the only time he'd ever get to kiss Sherlock Holmes, he'd knock his socks off.  
  
With a light brush of his tongue over Sherlock's lower lip, he managed to coax Sherlock's mouth open enough to slip his tongue in to brush against Sherlock's. And it was like lightning, a hot bolt of pleasure straight to his cock that Sherlock felt too, if the little gasping hitch in his breath was anything to go on. He pushed again, pulling every trick he knew to leave Sherlock gasping and wanting with teeth and tongue and lips. John was half hard in his trousers by the time he pulled back to see the results of his handiwork, and Sherlock was a brilliant sight. Kiss-swollen lips, red face, dilated eyes, and an arm strategically draped over his lap. A whoop from across the table finally drew John's gaze away, where he found several of the mates he'd hooked up with at some point during their tour all but panting after them.  
  
"On second thought," Sherlock said, "I think we should go home after all."  
  
John took in Sherlock's flushed and breathless appearance, trying to decide how to take it. Go home because he was embarrassed? Because John had crossed the line?  
  
Or because John had turned him on and he wanted more. In private.  
  
"Please take me home, John," Sherlock whispered in his ear, hot breath and the words themselves sending a shiver down John's spine.  
  
"Well, boys," John said, downing the last of his lager and Sherlock's scotch in quick succession, "this has been fun, but Sherlock and I need to get home." John held his keys and mobile in front of him in case the effect of Sherlock's tongue on his was obvious in the lay of his jeans.  
  
"Ha, I'd say so!" Murray called, but Jenkins whined.  
  
"No, come on, Johnny, it's been so long. Stay for one more drink, my round!"  
  
Sherlock stood and tugged at John's hand impatiently. "Yes, this was fun, must do this again, blah blah blah, now John needs to take me home and shag me through the mattress. If you'll excuse us."  
  
John laughed helplessly to the ceiling, a mess of confused, amused, and turned on. "Sorry, gents. Duty calls."  
  
"Duty? I thought your prick was named—"  
  
"Good night, Watson," Harris said, covering Patel's mouth with one enormous hand. "Go take care of that man of yours. Let's do this again sometime."  
  
"You got it," John said, lifting one hand in a wave as Sherlock dragged him out the door.  
  
They burst out of the pub onto the mostly quiet street, where Sherlock promptly whipped out his mobile.  
  
"Car to my location for transport back to Baker Street. Now."  
  
He hung up and dragged John into the alley next to the pub all in one motion. Before he could process what was happening, John found himself yanked forward so he pinned Sherlock against the wall. Sherlock spread his legs further and slid down the wall to equalize their height, so they were nose to nose and groin to groin.  
  
And it was autopilot after that.  
  
John dragged Sherlock down with a hand on the back of his neck and crashed their mouths together again, his blood running so hot in his veins it burned away every trace of confusion and doubt, until all he could think about was Sherlock's body under his hands, his tongue in his mouth, his hard cock grinding into John's.  
  
God, Sherlock was hard against him, and that was something he'd never thought possible.  
  
Sherlock tugged at John's belt buckle, not actually undoing it, but making his intent clear.  
  
"When we get home," Sherlock rumbled, but never finished, opting to kiss up the side of his neck instead.  
  
"Sherlock, if you're still pretending for the sake of the guys, now would be the time to stop before this goes too far," John gasped, thrusting involuntarily from the proximity of Sherlock's hand. God, he wanted to kiss him again and never stop.  
  
"And just how far is it going to go, John?" Sherlock murmured hotly in his ear. "How far is too far?"  
  
John huffed a laugh. In for a penny...  
  
"I think that's up to you," he said, slipping a hand under Sherlock's suit jacket and letting it drift down his back to the waistband of his posh trousers before hooking his thumb there. "It goes as far as you want, and no further. So you have to tell me, Sherlock. Is this still for show?"  
  
"Was that kiss in there for show?" Sherlock asked, letting his hand drift south of John's belt buckle...  
  
"Ah, god, Sherlock, I swear if you're fucking with me—"  
  
"I think that's rather the goal, isn't it? To have me _beneath_ you, was it?" Sherlock reminded him, sending a thrill to John's groin.  
  
John groaned and let his head fall forward onto Sherlock's shoulder. No mistaking that. This was happening. Sherlock Holmes was rubbing his cock through his jeans outside a pub, panting in his ear about getting fucked. Un-fucking-real.  
  
"If you're sure... Sherlock... god... jesus, I can't think."  
  
"So don't," Sherlock said with a nip to John's ear. "You're always telling me not to think so much."  
  
And John's brain gave in completely.  
  
"If I fucked you right here in this alley, do you think Lestrade could throw out the ASBO?"  
  
He should have been shocked by the words, should’ve wanted to call them back, be gentler, but the way Sherlock's head fell back against the wall, the moan vibrating in his throat—it was hard to feel sorry about anything.  
  
"Let's find out," Sherlock said, popping the button on John’s jeans. He dragged the zipper down, slipped a hand inside, and John saw stars.

“Christ, Sherlock,” he gasped, bucking into that hot, tight grip. He fumbled for Sherlock’s belt and made quick work of his trouser fastenings, then sank a hand down the back of his pants to grab a handful of Sherlock’s arse. Pure heaven, _god_ how he’d worshipped this arse from afar.  

“I’m gonna fuck you so good,” he growled. “You’re gonna love it, gonna beg for my cock, gonna make you feel so fucking good, Sherlock.”

Sherlock made a high, incoherent moan and John found his own wallet being pressed roughly into his hand.

“Get the bloody lube and get your fingers in me _now,”_ he demanded.

John fumbled for the little foil packet nestled next to his condom stash and slicked his fingers in a hurry, then dove in for a deep, hungry kiss.

“Turn around, gorgeous,” he growled, and Sherlock obeyed with a helpless groan, burying his face in his arms against the wall. The curve of his arse was round and temping through his tight black briefs, and John couldn’t help but cup one cheek with his un-lubed hand and _squeeze._ Sherlock hummed and thrust his arse back against John’s hand, cocking his hips to present his arse for best effect and rubbing back against John's clothed cock.

“Ah ah,” John warned, and swatted him sharp on one plump arse cheek. Sherlock let out a shocked moan and shoved back even harder, sending a hot bolt of lust straight to the base of John’s spine.

“You like that, huh? Sherlock Holmes likes to be spanked. What a miracle.” He gave him another good swat as he rubbed at Sherlock’s hole, gradually increasing the pressure until the tip of his finger sank easily in. Sherlock cried out and pushed back against John’s hand until one finger was fully seated, then two, until before long he was bouncing his arse with abandon on three of John’s fingers. Tension coiled tight in John’s belly, and he gripped the base of his cock tight as he marveled at the sight of Sherlock taking his pleasure.

“Now, John, now, please,” Sherlock begged. “I use toys, I know when I’m ready, I won’t break, just please, please—“

The thought of Sherlock Holmes fucking himself with a toy was more than John could take. He laughed helplessly as Sherlock reached back, grabbed his cock, and rubbed it against his perineum, then further. Dirty talk was one thing, but he had to ask, didn’t want any regrets later.

“Ah, god, Sherlock, are you sure? Out here, like this?”

Sherlock’s grip on his cock tightened, then twisted deliciously over the head.

“Please John, just a bit, just the tip if you won’t fuck me, just let me feel it, I need it.”

“This is such a bad idea, god,” he said, and trailed off into a groan as he dragged the tip of his cock over Sherlock’s relaxed entrance, smearing the lube around and pushing, pushing until just the head slid inside.

Just the tip, and John already felt like passing out.

Sherlock’s reaction was immediate and vocal. He undulated his hips, letting out little whimpering moans with every tiny rocking thrust, and John did his best to hold his cock still for Sherlock to use, but it was too good, and after only a few seconds he was stroking himself in time to Sherlock’s movements.

“God, Sherlock, I could come just like this, come all over your gorgeous hole. You’re so perfect, so hot, does that feel good? Do you like it?”

Sherlock’s cries rose swiftly in pitch at John’s words, and his motions sped, taking ever so slightly more of John’s cock.

“Ah, John, John, _John…”_ Sherlock panted.

Then a sleek black car pulled up to the curb, and John bit his lip hard, groaning in frustration.

"Guessing that's our ride?" he panted, thrusting shallowly into Sherlock, barely inside him at all. Sherlock hummed.

“No ASBO for you today, Doctor. You'll just have to fuck me at home."

John could swear he teleported straight into the car. One second he was there, about to say _fuck it_ and drive into Sherlock up against the wall, and the next he was pinning Sherlock down in the back seat of Mycroft's creepy car, delving into Sherlock's mouth with Sherlock’s legs wrapped around his waist. The drive passed in a blur of panting need, John somehow managing to get three fingers back inside Sherlock, keeping him open and adding more lube so they could resume without delay. John was only aware of their arrival once the driver knocked on the opaque divider window.

“Come on,” he said, doing up Sherlock’s trousers and tugging him out of the car. They spilled onto the pavement in a tangle of limbs, and Sherlock draped himself over John as he scrabbled with the keys, gasping at the feel of Sherlock’s hard cock grinding into his lower back.

“I need you, John, I need you, hurry, hurry up, damn it,” he muttered into John’s neck, and when the lock finally clicked open John gasped with relief.

They practically flew up the stairs, dizzy with wanting and lack of blood to the brain, and threw the door to the flat shut with a slam likely heard throughout the building. They didn’t even bother getting fully naked. The second the door was closed, Sherlock shoved his trousers down to his thighs and resumed his position from the alley, his cock in his hand and his gorgeous arse on display. John wasted no time, grabbing Sherlock’s arsecheeks, spreading them open, and sinking his cock straight into Sherlock's wet and waiting hole. They both shouted moans of shocked relief and held still for a long moment, John’s front to Sherlock’s back, pressed together, buried deep, so hot, _so good._

"You are the fucking love of my life," John gasped, needing to get the words out. "You know, don't you? Right from the start. Fucking wanted you. Went mad with it, every damn day."

Sherlock gasped something like a sob and ground back against John as if he could get any closer, pull John any deeper. John pressed kisses all over Sherlock’s shoulder blades as he drew slowly back, then thrust in again, slow at first, then faster, faster, Sherlock’s hand flying over his own cock. A shift of angle, a firm slap on Sherlock’s gorgeous arse, then another, and John felt him start to come from the inside. Sherlock’s inner muscles fluttered as his cries became one long moan, John’s name, and his come spilled over his fist and onto the rug. John fucked him through it, letting the maddening electric pleasure he’d been holding at bay drive his hips, his cock into Sherlock’s arse. He pulled Sherlock’s arsecheeks apart to watch his cock sink in over and over, and it only took once, twice, three more times, and then the wave hit him, tearing a shout from his lungs as he filled Sherlock’s arse and pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s heaving back.

They were quiet for a long moment, the only sound in the flat their slowing breaths and the soothing slide of hands over skin.

Sherlock finally broke the silence. He pulled away just enough to let John’s cock slide from his arse, then turned in John’s arms to capture his lips in a slow, sweet kiss.

“I love you too,” he murmured, and kissed him again. “I didn’t get a chance to say.”

John smiled into the kiss and ran a hand through Sherlock’s curls. "This is not how I thought this night would end."  
  
"Oh? And how did you think it would end?"  
  
"Mm, probably either with me having it off with my hand and crying into my pillow after, or with you kicking me out of the flat because I was too obvious."

Sherlock chuckled.

“I thought much the same. But I hoped. Just a bit.”

John nuzzled into Sherlock’s neck and hummed. “Yes. I hoped. Turned out rather well, I think, yeah?”

“I’d say so,” Sherlock said. He leaned his head back against the door, closed his eyes, and smiled.

“Your army friends are welcome back to town anytime they like.”

John kissed the smile right off his face and dragged him to the shower for round two.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> More fic coming shortly! Subscribe to me here or follow me on tumblr at [librarylock](http://librarylock.tumblr.com) for updates. If you liked this one, you might enjoy some of my other E-rated fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&work_search%5Brating_ids%5D%5B%5D=13&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=0&user_id=Itsallfine).
> 
> Thanks for reading. <3


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